His Masterpiece, Émile Zola [essential reading txt] 📗

trade. There was nothing of the old fashion about his style⁠—the greasy coat and keen taste of Papa Malgras, the watching for the pictures of beginners, bought at ten francs, to be resold at fifteen, all the little humdrum comedy of the connoisseur, turning up his nose at a coveted canvas in order to depreciate it, worshipping painting in his inmost heart, and earning a meagre living by quickly and prudently turning over his petty capital. No, no; the famous Naudet had the appearance of a nobleman, with a fancy-pattern jacket, a diamond pin in his scarf, and patent-leather boots; he was well pomaded and brushed, and lived in fine style, with a livery-stable carriage by the month, a stall at the opera, and his particular table at Bignon’s. And he showed himself wherever it was the correct thing to be seen. For the rest, he was a speculator, a Stock Exchange gambler, not caring one single rap about art. But he unfailingly scented success, he guessed what artist ought to be properly started, not the one who seemed likely to develop the genius of a great painter, furnishing food for discussion, but the one whose deceptive talent, set off by a pretended display of audacity, would command a premium in the market. And that was the way in which he revolutionised that market, giving the amateur of taste the cold shoulder, and only treating with the moneyed amateur, who knew nothing about art, but who bought a picture as he might buy a share at the Stock Exchange, either from vanity or with the hope that it would rise in value.

At this stage of the conversation Bongrand, very jocular by nature, and with a good deal of the mummer about him, began to enact the scene. Enter Naudet in Fagerolles’ studio.

“ ‘You’ve real genius, my dear fellow. Your last picture is sold, then? For how much?’

“ ‘For five hundred francs.’

“ ‘But you must be mad; it was worth twelve hundred. And this one which you have by you⁠—how much?’

“ ‘Well, my faith, I don’t know. Suppose we say twelve hundred?’

“ ‘What are you talking about? Twelve hundred francs! You don’t understand me, then, my boy; it’s worth two thousand. I take it at two thousand. And from this day forward you must work for no one but myself⁠—for me, Naudet. Goodbye, goodbye, my dear fellow; don’t overwork yourself⁠—your fortune is made. I have taken it in hand.’ Wherewith he goes off, taking the picture with him in his carriage. He trots it round among his amateurs, among whom he has spread the rumour that he has just discovered an extraordinary painter. One of the amateurs bites at last, and asks the price.

“ ‘Five thousand.’

“ ‘What, five thousand francs for the picture of a man whose name hasn’t the least notoriety? Are you playing the fool with me?’

“ ‘Look here, I’ll make you a proposal; I’ll sell it you for five thousand francs, and I’ll sign an agreement to take it back in a twelvemonth at six thousand, if you no longer care for it.’

“Of course the amateur is tempted. What does he risk after all? In reality it’s a good speculation, and so he buys. After that Naudet loses no time, but disposes in a similar manner of nine or ten paintings by the same man during the course of the year. Vanity gets mingled with the hope of gain, the prices go up, the pictures get regularly quoted, so that when Naudet returns to see his amateur, the latter, instead of returning the picture, buys another one for eight thousand francs. And the prices continue to go up, and painting degenerates into something shady, a kind of gold mine situated on the heights of Montmartre, promoted by a number of bankers, and around which there is a constant battle of banknotes.”

Claude was growing indignant, but Jory thought it all very clever, when there came a knock at the door. Bongrand, who went to open it, uttered a cry of surprise.

“Naudet, as I live! We were just talking about you.”

Naudet, very correctly dressed, without a speck of mud on him, despite the horrible weather, bowed and came in with the reverential politeness of a man of society entering a church.

“Very pleased⁠—feel flattered, indeed, dear master. And you only spoke well of me, I’m sure of it.”

“Not at all, Naudet, not at all,” said Bongrand, in a quiet tone. “We were saying that your manner of trading was giving us a nice generation of artists⁠—tricksters crossed with dishonest business men.”

Naudet smiled, without losing his composure.

“The remark is harsh, but so charming! Never mind, never mind, dear master, nothing that you say offends me.”

And, dropping into ecstasy before the picture of the two little women at needlework:

“Ah! Good heavens, I didn’t know this, it’s a little marvel! Ah! that light, that broad substantial treatment! One has to go back to Rembrandt for anything like it; yes, to Rembrandt! Look here, I only came in to pay my respects, but I thank my lucky star for having brought me here. Let us do a little bit of business. Let me have this gem. Anything you like to ask for it⁠—I’ll cover it with gold.”

One could see Bongrand’s back shake, as if his irritation were increasing at each sentence. He curtly interrupted the dealer.

“Too late; it’s sold.”

“Sold, you say. And you cannot annul your bargain? Tell me, at any rate, to whom it’s sold? I’ll do everything, I’ll give anything. Ah! What a horrible blow! Sold, are you quite sure of it? Suppose you were offered double the sum?”

“It’s sold, Naudet. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

However, the dealer went on lamenting. He remained for a few minutes longer, going into raptures before other sketches, while making the tour of the studio with the keen glances of a speculator in search of luck. When he realised that his time was badly chosen, and that he would be able to take nothing away with him, he went off, bowing with an air of gratitude,